


The Dialectics of Moral Consciousness

by possibilist



Series: Academia Quinn [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Faberry, Yale!Quinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They share a bottle of chardonnay the night before Rachel leaves to go back to NYADA. Quinn’s bed is all white sheets firm mattress; Quinn is all soft skin jolting bones. They’re drunk enough that Quinn shoving a leg between both of Rachel’s and wrapping her arms all the way around Rachel’s back is a show of solidarity, of comfort, of nothing but aliveness. Rachel smooths Quinn’s hair, feels Quinn start to cry into her chest, warm and quiet."</p><p>Or, five times during senior year at university Quinn and Rachel cuddle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dialectics of Moral Consciousness

**Author's Note:**

> my friend was very sad so i wrote this ridiculously fluffy and sort of sad thing for her. and yknow, my quinn is very close to me, and i've had a really tough year. but healing is a cool thing.  
> also i've been packing my shit to move to a new apartment and as cathartic as it is, i got a little dazed and bored so this fic is also a product of that fun thing.

We are all going forward. None of us are going back.  
—Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain”

...

Rachel visits four days before the fall semester begins: New York is overwhelming; she’s not seen Quinn since May. New Haven is hazy in the humid summer way, all mosquitos and running shorts and lawns, the grubby water, the pages of books slightly damp in Quinn’s apartment. 

Quinn is busy, getting ready for senior year papers and classes and her job as a tutor for the English department. But Rachel gets Quinn to calm down for a couple of days. By now she knows which restaurants are Quinn’s favorites, where she should pick up a latte from, the best florist. They’ve not been together together for a while, since the end of sophomore year—Quinn wasn’t ready; Rachel was stressed and impatient; it ended with a blow up fight, with Quinn adding thresholds of bruises to her legs, with Rachel needing to not talk for a few months.

They’d made up in the fall, but neither of them were really better. Quinn’s junior year was a struggle as a whole—Rachel knew there were days when Quinn could barely stay—here, alive. The few times Rachel visited, Quinn was warm and excited about classes, but she was either startlingly energetic and would spend the day writing, or she had trouble getting out of bed. And Rachel, Santana, a few of Quinn’s close friends from school, even Kurt, had spent hours, days, weeks just helping Quinn fight to not go. It was, in ways, a begging.

But Rachel senses something entirely different those blurry August days when Quinn’s twenty-one, pale and slight and tired-bright-eyed, scars and pebbles and all. She’s thinking differently, she says, and Rachel doesn’t miss the small bottle of medication on the counter in the bathroom. Quinn catches her eyeing it one morning, and she just smiles, and she says, “It’s the right dose and my head is easier and I’m not ripping in half anymore.”

Rachel knows that at this moment she should nod, and say she’s so glad, nothing grand or spectacular. So she does the simple thing. And she’s grown up in this past year and a half, as much as Quinn has—they’re young, but Rachel knows they have so much time, and that Quinn certainly deserves a little bit of it to herself to just heal, after years and years of not quite being able to.

They share a bottle of chardonnay the night before Rachel leaves to go back to NYADA. Quinn’s bed is all white sheets firm mattress; Quinn is all soft skin jolting bones. They’re drunk enough that Quinn shoving a leg between both of Rachel’s and wrapping her arms all the way around Rachel’s back is a show of solidarity, of comfort, of nothing but aliveness. Rachel smooths Quinn’s hair, feels Quinn start to cry into her chest, warm and quiet.

It’s a breaking. It’s a breath.

...

Like clockwork, Quinn gets pneumonia in October. It’s become a bit of a running joke within their group of friends—planning breaks and vacations around Quinn’s lungs. 

Rachel makes the trip to New Haven Friday at noon, after her morning class got out. It continuously saddens her when she knows the exact route to the hospital from the train station, but it does nothing to surprise her anymore. 

One of Quinn’s close friends from classes, Lily, is sitting next to Quinn’s hospital bed when Rachel arrives in the white room. Lily’s red hair is a mess, and she’s kind of leaned back in the chair, her feet propped up against the bed, scarf unevenly wrapped around her neck. Both she and Quinn are asleep, although Lily wakes up when Rachel knocks lightly on the door. Quinn stirs a little, tries to pull the little oxygen tubes from her nose—Lily grabs her wrist gently, and Quinn seems to stay soundly asleep.

“She had a tough night,” Lily says, rubbing her eyes. 

Rachel nods. “Do you want to go nap? Coffee?”

“You’re here for the weekend?”

“I have Monday and Tuesday off too.”

“Cool,” Lily says. “I have a light course load this week so I’ll definitely be around and stuff, but like—”

“—She kept you up all night watching The Office and crying?”

Lily laughs. “Parks & Rec.”

Rachel shakes her head in mild amusement, and squeezes Lily’s arm as they say goodbye.

Rachel sits down in the seat next to the bed, grabbing Quinn’s left hand. There are a few scars on the top, little pin pricks, and Rachel knows that not all of them are from IVs. She presses a kiss to the light red line following the river of vein down the underside of Quinn’s wrist, but she doesn’t cry, not like the first time she saw it and Quinn hadn’t been able to meet her eyes. 

This time she just rubs her thumb over it a few times, watches Quinn sleep. She looks older, Rachel realizes. Not old, not by a long shot, but it seems like it’s the first time Rachel’s really noticed that Quinn isn’t her sixteen year old self anymore. She still has ridiculously long eyelashes, but her jaw and her cheekbones are a little more vivid, like the last vestige of that innocent child-roundness has disappeared; her collarbones are sharp beneath the hospital gown. Even her wrists bite a little more against the world. But for as much as really the past year has made Quinn this hard thing, she’s grown soft and new, Rachel thinks: Quinn’s hair is light and short, little sideswept bangs. She has a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. She’s different, and Rachel knows this, and Rachel realizes that this is what healing looks like. Quinn is contradictions—all scars and noticeable bones, freckles and eyelashes.

Quinn’s breath rattles a little and she coughs lightly before she stirs, rolling towards Rachel with bleary eyes. 

“Hey beautiful eyes. Party with me,” she says groggily, and Rachel smiles.

“Feeling alive?”

“Nothing quite like it.”

Rachel scratches a hand lightly along Quinn’s scalp, which Quinn hazily and unabashedly leans into.

“I mean it, moron. Come party with me.”

Rachel laughs, and helps Quinn scoot over a little in bed, slips off her shoes. She loves being the big spoon—always did—even though she’s shorter: Quinn is one of those people that sometimes just needs to be held.

“This is a great party you’re throwing,” Rachel says, putting a gentle arm over Quinn’s waist and rubbing slow circles around her stomach.

Quinn says, “Mmhmm,” and then Quinn says, “I love you.”

Rachel takes one shaky breath into the back of Quinn’s neck. Quinn pats her hand. Rachel says, “I love you too.”

...

On New Years Eve, Rachel finds Quinn on the rooftop of Rachel’s house in Lima. A few months ago, Judy had moved to a little town in New Hampshire, closer to Quinn and Frannie—who had moved to Boston last year—but she and Quinn had still made the trip to Lima for a few days around New Years to see Brittany and Santana and their families. 

Rachel’s fathers throw their annual party, full of music and food. By now the Lopez’s and Pierce’s and Judy and Quinn were staples at their get togethers during the holidays, and this year is no different. Quinn seemed fine earlier, watching as Brittany and Santana goofed around during charades, sipping wine but not nearly fast enough to get drunk, snacking almost exclusively on Rachel’s homemade chocolate chunk cookies (Rachel couldn’t blame her—they were fantastic). But about five minutes ago Judy looked at Rachel with a little nod, which meant go check on Quinn.

Rachel isn’t really surprised when she finds Quinn a few feet away from her bedroom window on the roof, bundled in her coat and a scarf. It’s only two stories up, so it’s not nearly tall enough to jump—and she knows Quinn knows this too.

Rachel shuffles the short distance clumsily, but Quinn smiles a little without looking at her.

“There’s some fireworks,” Quinn says.

“It’s New Years Eve.”

“Oh, NYADA sass, I see.”

Rachel laughs lightly, nodding and slipping into Quinn’s offered and outstretched arm. It’s warm and so soft, and Rachel lays her head against Quinn’s shoulder.

Her chest physically aches in the full way, pressing on her diaphragm, weaving its way into her left shoulder. She glances up at Quinn, who is holding back apparent tears.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she says. It’s quiet and breathless. 

“I’m really glad you are,” Rachel says.

Quinn sniffles once, then lets out a big breath of air. It swirls crystalized in the streetlamps’ reflections, ghosting and futile, the burning thing.

There’s the background of cheering from inside the house, the swell and the bloom of another, of start. Rachel thumbs Quinn’s wet cheeks softly.

Then Quinn kisses her, hauntingly soft, hesitant.

Rachel breaks it after a few seconds, smiling softy at Quinn.

They have so much time: “Happy New Year,” Rachel says.

...

It’s tentative, because Quinn is still working through things in therapy as well as TAing and tutoring and almost ready to defend her theses, and Rachel is prepping for her senior showcase. 

But on February 20th, Quinn heads down to the city. Rachel greets her off the train, not sure what Quinn is quite ready for, but Quinn’s eyes flutter closed and Rachel smiles into the soft kiss.

“Hi,” Quinn says.

Rachel shakes her head a little, tingling, and grabs Quinn’s bag before linking their gloved fingers. 

They’re familiar with each other and the city by this point, so there’s not as much sight-seeing as there is napping and late brunches and afternoon strolls in the park. These weekends together this year have become times of respite, and for that Rachel is grateful.

By this point, it’s been four years, and neither of them has to say anything to know what anniversary this is. That night, it’s the most natural thing in the world for Rachel to lift Quinn’s sweatshirt from the bottom over her head while Quinn lays beneath her. Rachel kisses everywhere—openmouthed, slow, this arc-flicker-arch of Quinn’s hips, the lumped seventh rib, those raised purple stories. 

Quinn folds the small pockets of her body towards Rachel, belt buckles and cracked windshields and razors—her teeth are gentle, and Quinn digs her fingers into Rachel’s shoulder blades and kisses with her eyes closed.

Quinn comes quietly and softly: It’s a breaking, it’s a breath.

...

In April, Rachel goes to New Haven to watch Quinn defend one of her theses. For as much as she’s tried to pay attention during Quinn’s rambles, she generally has no idea what they’re talking about, but she loves the way Quinn speaks clearly and excitedly, gesturing with her hands and using words Rachel’s never heard before. She cracks a few jokes and her committee laughs heartily.

They decide quickly afterward that Quinn passed with honors, and she smiles and laughs and gets hugs from Judy and Frannie and her friends and professors from Yale. She kisses Rachel happily, deeply, holding her hand while she speaks with a few other peers and professors.

They go out to a celebratory dinner later, Rachel, Quinn, Judy, Frannie, Robert, and Quinn’s advisor, Andrew, and his husband, and there’s lots of champagne and wonderful food and Quinn’s advisor asks excitedly about Rachel’s post-graduate plans and says that he’s so happy to finally meet her.

Andrew taps his glass with his fork a little while later. “I think Quinn has some more news that she wants to share with you.”

Quinn bites her bottom lip for a second, and Rachel gets inexplicably nervous. But then Quinn smiles and says, “I got a Rhodes to study theory at Oxford.”

Rachel’s head spins—her post-grad plans were a year in performing in London, and she hadn’t brought up logistics or future things with Quinn yet because they’d both been so, so busy, and she hadn’t known Quinn even applied for a Rhodes. She turns to Quinn and says, “This means—”

“Yeah,” Quinn says. “It does.”

They walk back to campus later that night, and it’s drizzling rain, this spring haze.

Quinn talks about Delueze’s becoming-woman, the threshold of possibility, and Rachel can translate drunk, philosophy Quinn well enough to know that it means she’s just happy. 

Rachel snuggles tight into Quinn’s side, and they stumble a little with kisses and laughter every few steps. 

“This time last year I wanted to die,” Quinn says.

“I know.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

Rachel squeezes Quinn’s hand.

Quinn pauses for a moment, her eyes bright, misted with rain, eyelashes clumped, all suture and fold. “I’m going to keep getting so much better.”

“You’ve done so much and I’m, like, ridiculously proud of you, you know,” Rachel says.

Quinn tilts her head with a little shrug, then raises her eyes to Rachel’s and cups Rachel’s face in her hands, brings their bodies together. Quinn is still this slight thing, a Morse code of gaps and lighthouse illuminations, these shadows and dusty haunts—the rose hips that are too sharp for any flowered thing, the taught fishing line wrists, the creak spine. But she is this whole being, and Rachel grasps: The hold-me-tight marrow bones are warm, familiar.


End file.
